


Ivory and Gold

by comealongblack



Category: fbfa
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-17
Updated: 2015-06-17
Packaged: 2018-04-04 19:53:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4150779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/comealongblack/pseuds/comealongblack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>xx</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ivory and Gold

Cullen Winchester stood still, eyes set and back straight as he took in a deep breath. Behind him as his backdrop were an array of plants: hydrangeas, gardenias, orchids, and  hostas. A moderate amount of sunlight beamed down on him, casting a series of blurry shadows on his body caused by the junpier garden beds lining the edges of the rooftop.

“Alright,” Cullen exhaled, sight fixated on the football positioned at his feet. His gaze remained steady for a few more seconds, nearing a minute, before he pushed forward, eyes averted to the brick wall a few metres away, and kicked with as much force as he could muster.

The ball hit nowhere close to the spray painted goal mark. Far from it, in fact.

Cullen threw his arms up in the air in frustration and groaned as he watched the football roll away into a corner. “Bloody shit,” he said with gritted teeth.

It had been four weeks since his ankle injury. Which, truth be told, hadn’t even been that serious. Just a small fracture on his left ankle that a bag of ice a day eventually cured. Or so Cullen thought, apparently, as merely a month had passed and he could hardly play up to par.

“Try again,” came a mellow voice from the other side, somewhere near the small greenhouse.

Culled looked up and over his shoulder, having momentarily forgotten that he wasn’t alone.

River, his mousy but somehow devilishly acceptable best friend was still where he had been a mere hour ago: sitting crossed-legged on one of the rusty old benches, the one next to a patch of miniature succulents. His dark brown eyes were too preoccupied scanning the pages of his latest poetic obsession, Walt Whitman’s _Leaves of Grass_ for him to notice Cullen’s lingering gaze on him.

“Right,” Cullen breathes out, shaking his head as he jogs to retrieve the ball. "I'm shit. Just admit it."

This gets River's attention. "No, you're not," he says quietly, looking up as he places his index finger on the point of the page where he stopped reading to bookmark it. "Don't say that."


End file.
